Initiation
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Claire. Even a serial killer can't resist a girl in uniform.


...um, pretend they all joined Arthur for some, er, inexplicable reason?

Also, I feel really wrong posting smut on a Sunday, but...

**Title**: Initiation  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar/Claire  
**Summary**: Even a serial killer can't resist a girl in uniform.  
**Rating**: R  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x06  
**Word Count**: 3000  
**Notes**: Written for my part of the 10 Worst Places to Get Caught Having Sex challenge. Number Six: School.

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Claire's first official decision as a Petrelli had been to pick the most pretentiously liberal high school in all of downtown Manhattan.

Generally, Sylar wouldn't have cared, but Father had requested to see his only granddaughter.

And apparently, he couldn't be bothered to go pick her up himself. Or, you know. Hit seven on his speed dial and order her to come over.

"I'm _sorry_, Mr. Gray," the receptionist told him sternly, adjusting her glasses, "we do not allow parents of students free access to our facilities." She cleared her throat, clacking away on her keyboard. "I'm sure you understand, what with the recent security issues and such."

Sylar's fingers itched, but he replied calmly, wondering if he looked old enough to _be_ a parent or if the woman was legally blind. "I'm her uncle."

She clearly couldn't care less. "You're welcome to wait in the lobby until the classes let out." Unconcerned, she eyed him up and down. "Or you could just call your niece and ask her to come meet you outside."

"She tends to decline my calls," he grinned, eyes dark.

Blinking, the woman grew nervous. "Mr. Gray, I suggest you wait outside."

Yeah, that didn't exactly appeal to Sylar.

With a sigh, he raised his hand, palm outstretched, and cast a tentative glance at the poorly hidden security camera. "You're going to pull up Claire Petrelli's schedule, Mrs..." he glanced at her nametag, "Chappell."

"Yes," Mrs. Chappell answered robotically, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Smirking, Sylar leaned over to peek at the monitor, skimming down to the relevant information. "Cheerleader practice. Of course," he muttered, pushing the screen away and contemplating the fastest route to the gym.

"Straight down through the door on your left," Mrs. Chappell said obediently, staring intently at an invisible spot on the wall.

Lips curling, Sylar gave a slight nod, pushing through the door, and impatiently strode down the deserted hallway, occasionally squinting at the relatively quiet classrooms on each side.

_Sheep_, he mused, nauseated, echoing his thoughts from over a year ago.

Rather, from the last time he'd paid Claire a visit at school.

Humming, Sylar lengthened his stride, suddenly eager to reach his niece.

He found her surrounded by a flock of cheerleaders, sitting on a thick mat, back turned to him, poring over a girly magazine.

Honestly, he was starting to suspect she'd decided to enroll based on the uniform alone—black and white and illegally short.

"This list sucks _and_ blows," one of the cheerleaders whined, stretching.

Since they all looked and sounded the same to him, Sylar ignored her, skulking in the shadows by the bleachers, pondering his entrance.

The gym was mostly abandoned, large and polished, and currently housed a small group of obnoxious cheerleaders. And he'd never liked cheerleaders—the "OMG, you guys, it's like I just had a gallon of coffee!" demeanor and the condescending attitude and—

"I thought we were going to, you know, actually practice," Claire pointed out, looking bored and grumpy.

One of the cheerleaders cocked a haughty eyebrow, "Look, fresh meat, _I_ decide what we do and when." She smiled beatifically, circling a block of text on the magazine by her feet. "And I say we finish this list."

Claire's eyes narrowed dangerously.

Sylar fixed his eyes on her profile, interest piqued.

"So, okay, number six," the girl continued, smacking her gum loudly. "Who _hasn't_ done number six?"

The rest of the girls exchanged glances.

"Apparently, the rest of us?" Claire spoke up, unbearably smug.

Sylar felt a flash of something suspiciously like pride poke at his chest, wondering what the hell they were talking about.

"Oh, whatever, I've done it at school before," the girl bragged, flipping her hair and fixing her eyes on Claire. "Like, it's not a big deal, Petrelli—"

"Don't call me that," Claire mumbled.

"—it's just sex," the girl finished, oblivious.

Claire looked unimpressed. "Okay."

The girl's eyes narrowed, mouth twisting unpleasantly. "Aww, I think we've got an _innocent_ in our mist."

Claire opened her mouth, quite possibly to correct _mist_ to _midst_, but Sylar leaned back into the shadows, and leisurely stretched out his palm, fingers unfurling.

Claire closed her mouth with a tiny gasp.

Grinning, Sylar maneuvered the back of her skirt aside from the safety of the bleachers.

"What, no comeback?" the girl demanded smugly, crossing her arms.

Claire bit her bottom lip, glancing around with worry.

Lazily, Sylar sliced the air with his fingers, watching in satisfaction as Claire's panties slid down a little, exposing part of her hip, unnoticed by the rest of her gaggle.

"Oh, c'mon, leave Claire alone, Ash," one of the other girls interjected, waving the magazine. "What about number seven? Anyone—"

Sylar tuned the conversation out, focusing on Claire's back and deciding to compensate himself for the annoyance of having to pick her up.

He let her skirt flop back down, the ruffled hem brushing against her bare skin, and smiled as she squirmed and squeezed her knees closer together.

Of course, he had no intent to pursue this highly objectionable course of action—Claire was just a whiny kid, after all—but it presented a viable choice of entertainment for a few minutes. So he took a moment to contemplate his next move, then noticed a discarded pompom by Claire's feet.

Feeling creative, he leaned forward and telekinetically separated one of the tassels, guiding it inconspicuously up Claire's leg as one of her socks slipped down.

Alarmed, she slapped her palm over the slithering tassel, cheeks darkening.

The rest of the girls quickly brought their gazes to her, eyebrows raised.

"Thought I... saw... an ant?" Claire tried, tilting her head sheepishly.

The girls gave a collective shrug and went back to giggling over their mysterious list.

Claire, for her part, was suspiciously scanning the gym, eyes almost instinctively drawn to the shadows.

Grinning, Sylar amiably poked his head out, holding up a hand in greeting.

He watched, oddly satisfied, as a quick succession of emotions played across her features—first surprise, then fear—which he'd thought would be obsolete by now— and finally, pure and absolute revulsion.

"Hey, Claire, are you listening?" one of the girls asked, annoyed, waving her hand in front of Claire's scowling face.

"What? Uh, yes," Claire replied, forcing herself to look away from Sylar.

"Oh, good," the dictator cheerleader smiled, lips twisting evilly. "Then you're up for it, right?"

Both Sylar and Claire frowned a little, having completely missed whatever conversation had went on during their impromptu family reunion.

"I... guess?" Claire agreed, nails digging into the mat.

"Okay," the girls squealed, drawing closer to her, "the next guy that comes in, then."

"What?"

One of the girls cocked her head as though challenging Claire, "We're giving you an opportunity to get one of the things on the list... _off_ the list."

Sylar blinked.

As did Claire. "What?"

The ringleader gave an exasperated sigh, "Claire, have sex with the first guy that walks in."

Claire blanched. "What, that's—you can't—"

"Or you're off the squad."

Frowning, Claire's eyes darkened. "What are you, twelve?"

Sylar decided this would be a good time to intervene.

"Claire," he drawled, stepping out of the shadows, hands in his pockets.

After a moment of utter silence, one of the girls commented, "Aww, no fair, he's hot."

Claire, however, turned murderous eyes on him. "What do you want?"

Before Sylar could answer, another cheerleader ushered Claire to her feet, pushing her forward. "Okay, off you go and remember to report back~!"

Scowling, Sylar blinked as a herd of hormonal girls shoved him out of the gym into the darkened locker room, stuffing Claire into his arms.

When the lock clicked into place, Claire spun around, bringing her knee up to his groin, and hissed, "What are you doing here?"

Sylar cringed, grateful that the only pain he could feel was phantom. "Father's cooking dinner."

Her mouth fell open, bottom lip glistening somewhat appealingly. "...am I on the menu?"

He bit back a grin. "He assured me it was strictly pleasure, no business."

She eyed him, suspicious. "So he won't be sucking out my power while I'm in the middle of soup?"

Sylar cocked a bushy eyebrow. "Perhaps dessert."

"Whatever," she sighed, looking sleepy. "At this point, I really don't care. Can't be worse than what just happened."

He thought about pointing out that she was still sort of in his arms, body pressed against his, but then decided this was probably normative behavior for Petrellis. "So, should I take my shirt off?"

She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Sorry," he smirked, amused. "Did you want to take it off for me?"

She pushed him away, suddenly aware of the situation. "Gross."

He took his shirt off anyway, gauging her reaction.

Surprisingly, Claire seemed awfully curious, unable to keep her eyes focused on the locker in front of her.

"Funny," she mumbled under her breath, gaze surreptitiously darting to his chest. "I expected... more hair. Like, a magical forest or something."

Considering Sylar hadn't actually planned on taking off his shirt in front of his niece or generally taking the joke to this extreme, he found himself hesitating. Clearly, it was time to put his clothes back on, escort Claire to Father, and maybe go read the Bible or call Mother or something.

Instead, he found himself asking, "What was on the list, Claire?"

She wouldn't look at him, and her voice lowered a little when she said, "Nothing important." Slowly, she seemed to decide that she wouldn't let him win this—whatever it was—and straightened her shoulders, telling him, "The ten worst places to get caught."

And okay, why was he unbuckling his belt?

"Get caught doing what?" he asked, tone calculated.

She was watching his fingers work, feigning indifference. "Having sex."

He closed his eyes briefly, pausing.

A moment later, when he'd convinced himself he was in control of his body, Sylar leveled his gaze with hers. "And where was number six?"

Claire bit her bottom lip, backing into a locker, cheeks pink. "At school."

And then his palms were pressing into the cold metal on each side of her neck, trapping her. "We'll just have to be careful not to get caught, then."

A bench flew past them, lodging itself against the door.

Terrified, Claire glanced at the door, then looked up at him, nose wrinkled. "Okay, it's not funny anymore." She dug her fingers into his forearms. "Let go."

He nuzzled her temple, irritated with himself. "You should know by now I have trouble controlling my urges."

Claire's fingers dug in deeper. "Okay, so slice open my head again or something." Her voice rose, panicked. "Sylar."

He brought his nose to hers, lips barely brushing against hers. "Not that simple." His hand slid lower, lightly grazing her breast, then slipped to her hip. "I already understand what's going on up here." His other hand rubbed a gentle circle over her temple.

She struggled against his chest, but only succeeded in grinding her hips into his.

Which, frankly, did nothing to help the situation.

"No, wait," she panted, "what if I just tell you what goes on..." she trailed off, mortified, "...down there?"

Intrigued, Sylar inclined his head, contemplating. Then logic swiftly kicked in and he brought his lips to her jaw. "Do you even _know_?"

She made an odd little noise, half-offended, half-furious. "Better than you!"

He gave her an unmoved look. "Doing nothing to dissuade me, Claire."

She seemed to realize this, as well, because she lifted one leg and wrapped it around his hip, dazed. "Arthur will know," she said, her breath tickling his cheek. "So will Angela. You know. Your parents. My grandparents."

He brought a hand to her skirt, easily maneuvering around the elastic and her panties, and pressed his thumb against her. "Talking," he warned, rubbing a small half-circle, "will only prolong this."

She quieted, bucking into him.

He exhaled, confident he could do this quickly. He could figure her out, learn what made her tick, play her like a fine timepiece, and hopefully, the situation wouldn't escalate. Even psychopathic serial killers had standards.

_Well_, he thought, as her fingers finished unbuckling his belt, _not many_.

So, yeah, he needed to hurry.

Determined, he slipped a finger inside her, and was immediately tempted by the slick warmth there. She arched away from him, limited in movement by the locker, and brought her other leg up, heels awkwardly digging into his... legs?

"You're too short for this," he murmured, withdrawing his hand and waving it at the stack of towels on one of the benches. Obediently, they scattered neatly on the ground, so Sylar grunted and pulled Claire to the floor, dumping her onto the towels.

She frowned as her back hit the ground, breath hitching, and accused, "You're weirdly gentleman-y about this."

With purpose, he knelt between her legs, unceremoniously taking off her panties and spreading her knees. "Trying to be a good uncle."

As though she'd forgotten, Claire made a revolted face, bringing a hand to her mouth like she was battling nausea. "Remind me to buy a set of wind chimes, please."

Sylar didn't quite understand the reference, but he had more important issues to deal with.

Like...

He wanted to lick her.

And he wanted to take off his pants. And do other things that defeated the purpose of getting this over with quickly to satisfy The Hunger.

"Do you not know what to do?" she asked disdainfully, reminding him why he'd hated her type when he'd been in high school.

His pants were down before she could blink, and then he was nestling between her legs. "Wrong choice of words, princess."

Tentatively, her hands slid to his back, making him harden. "Boxers?" she whispered into his neck. "Don't those need to be off, too?"

Instinctively, he ground into her, grateful for the fabric between them. "Unless you're uncharacteristically prepared, we don't have protection."

She seemed to shiver all over, clinging closer. "Okay."

He tried to calm down. "Typical irresponsible teenager," he drawled, propping himself up on his elbows.

Her fingers slid to the small of his back, tugging his boxers down over the curve of his ass. "Typical crazy old guy. Good thing I plan on forgetting this—"

This was a familiar threshold, where things were definitely beyond his control. Usually, at this point, scalps would be flying off.

Instead, there was an achy wet slide, and Claire gasped beneath him, short, blunt nails scratching against his skin.

Heart pounding, Sylar shifted forward experimentally, pushing in a little deeper. "Oh."

"Oh," she echoed, wrapping her legs around him properly.

Caught off guard, he reevaluated the situation, then found himself pushing past in one quick thrust.

"Didn't hurt," she informed him dutifully, looking equally resigned and saddened.

Curiously, he felt a little guilty, then angled his hips, searching.

There. That should be where this particular girl would be the most sensitive—

She arched off the ground, gasping loudly, eyes flying to his as though looking for confirmation.

"I learn quickly," he smiled wickedly, bringing his thumb between them, other hand sliding beneath her and slanting her body closer.

She nodded wordlessly, hands dropping to her sides, and bit her bottom lip, hair spilling from her ponytail.

Distracted, he moved one hand up her thigh, below her knee, and spread her wider, surprised by her delighted little mewls.

Even he could appreciate how wrong this was, but it was natural to him, achieving a certain rhythm—the _correct_ rhythm—never even a fraction of a second off, like the countless watches he'd repaired.

Claire was flushed, fingers tangled in the towels, clearly beyond reason, which was flattering, considering she was half-clothed, relatively untouched, and hated him. But the strangest freakin' thing was that he could feel himself going off tempo and losing the ability to form coherent sentences and sort of wanting to fuck her into oblivion—

"Sylar," she managed, brow furrowed, lips parted, lifting off the ground, and then—

—then the idiot had to go and open her eyes.

It was that exact moment, that look of real wonderment, that undid him.

Frantic, he started to pull out and away, but her hands flew to his ass, holding him firmly in place. She clamped down around him, and with him buried to the hilt, he felt every little pulse and quake.

When he came inside her, he was as surprised as she was.

He could feel her chest rise and fall beneath his.

"Would you like some good news?" he asked after a while.

Stunned, Claire stiffened, voice muffled, "Please."

"If we never die," he told her, extracting himself, "we won't go to hell."

She sat up, looking torn between laughing and bursting into tears. "Want more good news?"

He beckoned his shirt to his fingers.

"At least I got one thing off my list," she said with false bravado.

He pulled his pants up and the shirt over his head, running a hand through his hair. "Me, too."

She stood up shakily, patting down her skirt and looking for her panties. "Bad news?"

He wondered why The Hunger was still lingering, whispering things in his ear, suggesting he pin her to the nearest flat surface. "Yes?"

"There were nine other things on that list."


End file.
